I wait in the rain-slicked stone hall as dusk falls, ledger pressed to my chest, knowing that one wrong step means the door closes on me forever. The Countess stands inside the archive, lantern casting shadows across her scars, and when she speaks my name my breath catches like a command already given.
Her low order to stay at the threshold makes my knees weak with something I refuse to name. I have sold my deference for the chance to clear the family debt, but her voice turns every humiliation into the only touch that feels like home.
She hands me the papers and our fingers meet, freezing us both in the charged air. I would accept every stinging correction on the firelit rug, every degrading word that strips me bare, if only she decides to keep me after the training ends.
